


The Drop of Water

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-07
Updated: 2007-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson finds sometimes there's no more room to bend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drop of Water

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Harrowing theme and content; sensitive subject. NOT A HAPPY ENDING. Takes place shortly after episode 3-14 (deviating from canon after that). Many, many thanks to [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) and [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/) for beta.

Cameron was having a House moment. Really, the only way to explain why she barged into Wilson’s office without knocking. “Dr. Wilson.” She used a title; she wasn’t _totally_ House. “This biopsy you did last week –”

She looked up, caught sight of Wilson’s face, and almost stumbled over her own feet.

He was sitting at his desk, hands laying open palm-down on his blotter, the hair on his forearms glinting in the glow from the desk lamp. He was staring straight ahead at nothing, but even if his eyes had been focused, she doubted severely that he could have seen a thing through the well of tears. His eyes were overflowing, almost like a fountain, streaming down both sides of his nose from the inside corners of his eyes. As she watched, beads formed on his lower eyelashes as well, expanding, sinking, falling free, and splashing on his cheeks.

Without conscious thought, she asked, “Are you all right?”

He turned to her and blinked slowly, heavily, his eyelashes weighted by the water. “I told House that you were not a stupid person. Was I wrong?”

“I –” She had nothing to say; even faithful old standbys of comfort were escaping her completely. She felt her eyes start to prickle in an automatic sympathetic response, although her actual emotions at that moment were far from simple. ( _Men don’t cry,_ Allie-pie in pigtails wailed. _But this is Wilson,_ Cam sneered, grinding her cigarette under her heel.)

“Shut the door,” Wilson said, and she started.

“What?”

“Shut. The. Door,” he replied through clenched teeth, and returned his gaze to the far wall.

As the door clicked close, his tone became briskly professional, the way she’d heard him speak to the oncology residents. “I’m going to need Ativan.”

“Ativan?”

“Or another fast-acting anti-anxiety med that calms a person without knocking them out. Get Dr. Steiner in here.”

Cameron noticed with minor alarm that she had completely crumpled the patient file in her hand. “From Psych?” she asked.

“Tell her I have a patient with suicidal ideation.” He looked at Cameron but dismissed her shock with barely a twitch, quickly wiping his nose with a tissue and staring again at the wall. The tears hadn’t stopped; she had no idea how he was speaking without choking. “Given how understaffed they are, it’s the only thing that can light a fire under their ass any more: imminent threat of harm to self or others. Go now.”

She turned toward the door, until he stopped her with an inquiring, “Cameron?”

“Yes?”

“If you tell House or anyone else about this, I can and will make it very uncomfortable for you around here.”

“I wouldn’t –” she protested.

“You would,” he declared definitively, even as his eyes were still locked on the wall. “But you won’t if you value your career.”

She had never heard that menace in his tone before, and she shuddered as she closed his office door behind her.

* * *

Jean Steiner sighed as she approached Dr. Wilson’s office door. She didn’t have room in her caseload for another patient, but Wilson had backed her up on some budget requests with the Board, so really she owed him. And suicidal thoughts weren’t that uncommon upon getting a terminal diagnosis – maybe after a couple of sessions she could get the patient transferred to a psychologist or grief counselor.

He responded to her knock with a curt, “Come in,” and she wondered if the patient was still in his office. Dr. Cameron had been rather vague, doling out details slowly and only when asked.

She put on her most professional expression and opened the door. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, shutting the door behind her, and then she saw his face. Red angry blotches stretched across his cheeks and nose, crossed by the tracks of tears that were falling and clearly had been falling for some time.

He swallowed before speaking. “What meds did you bring?”

She took a deep breath before continuing. She’d treated medical professionals before – physicians, psychiatrists even – but never anyone she worked with to this extent. “I have a couple of different things. I can also have something else brought, but let’s talk about what the problem is first.”

His eyes never left her face. His gaze was as direct as the sheen of tears would allow, and his voice was steady. Interesting. “The problem is that I can’t leave this room until I stop crying. However, I can’t seem to stop, so I need something to make that happen.”

“What would be so bad about leaving the room while you’re crying?” She took a seat in his guest chair and regarded him as calmly as she could. Her professional interest was starting to outweigh her personal sympathy.

He glared. “Dr. Steiner, you’re a department head. Would you want your residents and nurses to see you in tears?”

“All two of them?” she sighed, and then flinched. Not the point; _so_ not the point. “Sorry. I think my feelings would depend on the reason I was in tears. There are many reasons that I know my colleagues would find sympathetic.”

His gaze fell away from her, down toward his desk, where his hands were clenching and unclenching. He stopped and brought his left hand slowly up, and she expected him to rub his neck, as she’d seen him do before in stressful situations. But instead he stroked under his chin, pulling at the skin and flesh there.

“This reason is not one anyone over the age of eleven would find sympathetic.” He continued to pinch and release.

“I’m sure it’s nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said and leaned forward to catch his eye.

“Confidentiality,” he said, and she nodded. His hand stilled, slid down his chest, and fell into his lap.

“Dr. House said I was fat.”

She wasn’t sure what she had anticipated – loss of a pet, maybe – but that was definitely not it. Her training allowed her to keep her face impassive. “I see.”

“No, you don’t,” he replied. His voice was steady, but still the tears fell. “His exact words were, ‘Time to lay off the _latkes_ ,’ so I suppose that was also an insult to my heritage, but maybe I’ve given up on my heritage, because that part didn’t sting. I got him out of here, safely away, and shut my door, and the crying started. That was...” He bit his lip and raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought.

“About thirty minutes ago,” he concluded. “Give me the Ativan.”

She was weighing, assessing. “I think we should keep talking.”

“It’s not necessary. Give me the sedative; I’ll wait twenty minutes or so for my face to clear up, and then I’ll go home and sleep it off.”

It was amazing to Steiner how collected he sounded. If not for the tears streaming down his face, this might have seemed like any other consult. “I don’t think you should be alone just now.”

“Once again with the _should_.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “After some sleep, I’ll be fine.”

“How do you know how you’ll feel? Have you had this type of, um, episode before?”

He pulled a tissue from a desk drawer and blew his nose quietly. “No. But I know how I feel, and I feel fine emotionally now. These tears are merely a strange physical response to, I don’t know, just a build-up of stress. You’ll give me some meds; I’ll get some sleep; everything will be fine.”

Wilson’s head tilted just so, and he smiled. She felt a gentle tug in her lower abdomen, and wondered whether he was consciously or subconsciously flirting with her to get his way. It didn’t matter. He clearly needed the sedative, and she’d have the twenty minutes he planned on waiting in here to probe deeper. And to get a follow-up appointment scheduled.

* * *

Steiner met with Wilson five times after that. He was a model patient: honest, reflective, willing to examine his own thought patterns. He even completed the “homework” she assigned each session. He was able to identify all his stressors – and there certainly were a lot. Between older events like the loss of his brother, ongoing stresses inherent in a career in oncology, and the cumulative effect of the events of the past year combined with lack of an appropriate support system... “well, no wonder,” was her personal opinion. Professionally, she diagnosed depression with some features of anxiety, and prescribed Zoloft and BuSpar.

By the sixth session, she felt he was making excellent progress. She referred him to a psychologist for ongoing counseling and felt confident he’d continue to improve. If only she could say the same for all the rest of her patients.

* * *

Steiner’s patient load did not go down, and the cases continued to get more and more severe, as resources for preventive mental health care declined and the push toward paraprofessionals continued. In the most secret part of her mind, she would periodically create a living, breathing effigy of the mental health system in the U.S. and then strangle the bastard to death with her own (mental) hands. It was a nightmare, and she was running as fast as she could to keep the demons away for as many patients as possible.

Dr. Wilson’s six-month follow-up session was like a breath of fresh air. Good news to report on almost every front: he’d moved into an apartment, hired a deputy department head, developed a few interesting hobbies, and was spending more time with his family.

She wondered if this was how he felt when patients went into remission.

“And House,” Wilson was saying. “You remember my friendship with Dr. House?”

“Oh, yes,” Steiner replied, smiling. A very large source of stress for Wilson, but also, somehow, a source of comfort. They’d spent quite some time in their sessions discussing ways to make that relationship healthier.

“He’s doing very well lately – seems like he’s on a more regular schedule for his pain meds, and he’s dating a great woman. She’s a match for him, and then some, just exactly what’s good for him. He hardly even needs me any more,” he concluded proudly.

She replied, “Great,” but could feel her smile fading a touch. She had a little nagging feeling that something was... off. “What about _your_ love life?” she asked.

“Are you hitting on me, Jean?” He laughed, and his eyes twinkled. She found herself laughing with him. “Romance is just not that important to me right now,” he continued. “I’ve got to love myself first, right?”

She looked down at her notes and then back up at him. “Usually at this point, my patient starts asking me about weaning off the meds.”

“Oh, no.” Wilson shook his head lightly. “There’s no reason to make a change now.”

She was turning toward her clock to confirm their time was up, when she caught it from the corner of her eye. A micro expression, as Ekman called it – split-second, there and gone. Wilson had looked, in that tiny fraction of a second, sly and smug. He was hiding something. _Damn it._

She composed herself and turned back to him with a smile. “I’ve got a patient in five minutes.”

“Sure.” He began to rise, and she caught him by the arm.

“But I am free tonight – would you want to have dinner?” She blushed, and turned her head down and to the side. _I’m flirting_ , she repeated mentally over and over, willing him to believe it. She felt she had to get him talking again.

He patted her hand and gently moved it off his arm. “Getting involved with patients is not a good idea. I should know, right? But much as I’d love to break all the rules with you,” – _inveterate flirt_ , she marveled – “I actually have plans tonight.”

“With House?”

“No, he’s got a date,” he said, moving to the door. “These plans are just for me, something I’ve been wanting to take care of for quite a while. It’s finally the perfect time. Good bye, Dr. Steiner.”

There was a chill down her back, and she reached out toward him. But he was gone, and Carrie Yan was there, and Carrie needed all of Dr. Steiner’s attention for the next ninety minutes.

* * *

In the late afternoon, Steiner pondered what to do. Wilson had made no threats, hadn’t even expressed any concerns. She had no logical evidence that he planned to do any harm. Only a hunch.

It certainly wasn’t enough to commit him involuntarily, and she knew he’d laugh it off if she tried to approach him directly. She couldn’t break confidentiality and pull anyone else in, but she could not shake the feeling that without intervention, something would happen tonight.

She was still considering as she crossed the lobby and saw Dr. House loitering by the desk. In a split second, she made up her mind and approached him.

“I hear you’re a shitty friend,” she opened with, standing close enough for a quiet conversation, but keeping an eye on House’s cane.

“What?” House responded, startled.

“Everybody says you take advantage of Dr. Wilson all the time, and don’t support him when he needs help.” She had to be very careful to only say what she had heard around the hospital or what she’d seen with her own eyes. This was a very thin line; she needed all her tightrope skills.

“What’s your problem, Steiner?” House was angry but also curious. Good.

“My _problem_ is I can’t stand assholes who only take and don’t give. My _problem_ is people who can’t see _trouble_ coming and allow their friends to get swept up in it.” She stared him down, begging him to see it.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it or don’t waste my time.” He turned to walk away and she grabbed at him.

“Huh,” she scoffed, “I thought you were supposed to be a genius. The guy who made the _connections_ , who knew the _diagnosis_ , without having to have everything spelled out for you.”

His eyes changed, softened. They flicked from her face, to her employee ID, to the front doors, and back to her ID. “Did Wilson tell you he has plans tonight?” he asked quietly.

She hoped he would hear her silence correctly, because she couldn’t say a thing.

“Yeah,” House finally said, nodding. “Yeah, I’m the genius. Excuse me; I gotta go hack into Jimmy’s credit card record.”

* * *

House sat at Wilson’s computer, in Wilson’s ugly and rather sterile apartment, and clicked the Refresh button yet again. After the incident with the stereo store (those speakers _never_ went on sale, and House had planned to pay Wilson back right away, really he had), Wilson had signed up for a service that let him see every charge made to his MasterCard the second it occurred. House had found it annoying and intrusive – he could only imagine how much worse it would feel if he had his own card on the account instead of just periodically stealing Wilson’s – but tonight he was exceedingly glad.

He’d deduced Wilson was going to do this in a hotel, and he needed the name of the hotel so he could go and stop it.

He’d checked Wilson’s other haunts just in case, but Wilson hadn’t been there. And of course not. This had to be removed, anonymous, neat, and tidy. House was trying very hard not to think about the months Wilson had been living in a hotel while House was living in Oblivious To Wilson Land, and whether the thought had ever crossed Wilson’s mind then.

Didn’t matter. House was going to stop it. He clicked the Refresh button again.

Probably not. Wilson probably hadn’t thought about it then, or at least if he thought about it, not seriously. Because House still _needed_ Wilson then, desperately. It was only after, when House was stable again, although still living in OTW Land, apparently.

He clicked the Refresh button.

He hadn’t realized Wilson was seeing Steiner for therapy, but he knew exactly when it had started. He was a genius, after all. It _took_ a genius, really it did, to sort out the bottles with six months’ worth of unused anti-depressants here in Wilson’s apartment and put them in chronological order. _Fuck, Wilson, you didn’t take one damn pill._

He clicked the Refresh button.

He was sure he had time; it was only six o’clock. His now-cancelled date had been scheduled for seven, and he knew Wilson would wait until that was underway. But he really wanted to hedge his bets and get going, so he needed the name of the hotel. That was the first reason he wanted Wilson’s latest charge to hurry up and show up on the screen.

The second reason was that then the line that read “Nowicki Gun Shop, Trenton, NJ” would get pushed off the screen. He was getting really sick of that line.

The screen blinked, or maybe House did, and the hotel name was there. House recognized it; he knew exactly where it was; he didn’t bother to lock the door behind him.

* * *

House imagined, on the drive over, all the ways the conversation might go. He imagined, as he flirted shamelessly with the desk clerk to get Wilson’s room number, how brilliant he’d be, and how in time, three months, six months maybe, they’d look back on this night with relief. _That was when it all started to get better_ , they’d say, and laugh contentedly, and have another beer.

When Wilson answered the hotel room door, looking very normal and Wilson-like, House thought he saw cartoon bluebirds flying by.

“Jimmy,” he said, and tried to push his way in.

“House,” Wilson replied, and held the door firmly. “You’re going to be late for your date.”

“Oh, that. I decided I had something more important to do.”

Wilson’s face was almost comically curious. “What?”

“Track down my best bud and bug him to –” He broke off; he couldn’t say _death_. “Pieces,” he finished lamely, and pushed very hard against the door.

Wilson relented but sighed. “You can’t stay, House. My escort’s going to be here soon.”

House was scanning everything. It all looked normal. “You could have an escort come to your apartment; you don’t need a room for that.”

“I don’t want a hooker in my house,” Wilson scoffed.

“You didn’t mind a hooker _on_ your House.” Where was it? Where was it?

“Totally different thing,” Wilson replied. “You need to go now.”

House shook his head and dropped onto the bed. “Nope. Where’s the gun, Jimmy?”

It was a strange sight, Wilson suddenly inspecting his cuticles. _Did he get that move out of the Cliche Reactions R Us catalog?_ House wondered. _Does he take me for a moron?_

“Don’t bother denying it,” House pressed. “Just give me the gun and let’s go.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Wilson replied matter-of-factly. “You’re supposed to be enjoying your date. She’s a great woman, smart, sexy, doesn’t take your shit. She’s perfect for you.”

“And I thank you for introducing us. Can’t wait to see her again this weekend. But right now, tonight, it’s you and me. Give me the gun.”

Wilson fixed a stray hair in the mirror. “I don’t think I will.”

House was sitting up ramrod straight, alert. “You should.”

 _“Should_ ,” Wilson sighed. “I hate that word. But it’s OK; I won’t have to hear it for very much longer.”

All House saw was a glint and a blur, and the impossibly large handgun was up by Wilson’s left temple. Not quite the right angle; Wilson was drawing it back and forth over about an inch of his skin.

House’s mind was clicking, calculating. Distance, acceleration, speed. He had to get that damn gun away. He could swing his cane faster than he could run – _fucking leg_ – but Wilson was too far away. He’d have to step, then swing, and he knew Wilson was calculating all that, too.

Wilson sighed happily. “Everything’s taken care of. It’s all set; I’m done. It’s a relief, you know?”

“You forgot something, though. You forgot me.”

“ _You_ ,” Wilson said, in his “naughty-boy” voice, with the barest of tips of the gun barrel in House’s direction, “are supposed to be on your date. I didn’t forget you at all. You’ve got a wonderful woman, and you don’t need me.”

“But I do,” House called plaintively, reaching forward.

The gun slid down Wilson’s cheek to the corner of his mouth. “Last chance to leave the room.”

“Wilson, wait, listen.” House could hear his heartbeat; he thought Wilson must be able to hear it too. “I’ll be miserable if you go.”

Wilson smiled broadly. “You’re always miserable, so no change there.”

“But I’ll be more miserable without you. Give me the gun.” House wanted to stretch out his hand, wanted to jump up and tackle Wilson, but he felt paralyzed. “Please, Jimmy, please, I love you; I don’t think I can live without you.”

Wilson smirked, but his eyes were filled with affection. “Everybody lies, House. Don’t lie to yourself; you’ll live on just fine. I do know you love me, though.” Wilson smiled, and House felt his heart breaking. “I love you, too.” House was pushing off the bed, and took his eyes off Wilson for just a second.

“Letters in the desk drawer,” Wilson said, and when House lifted his head, the barrel was in Wilson’s mouth.

“No! Wilson!” he screamed, just before the retort deafened him.

As Wilson’s body slid to the floor, House’s mind picked out patterns in the spatter across the mirror. He sank to his knees and waited for his leg to scream, but nothing. _Better than ketamine_ , he thought numbly as he crawled over to Wilson.

Still warm. House rolled Wilson gently onto his back, brushed some hair from Wilson’s eyes, and then curled up around him, head on his chest.

 _Warmer than me_ , House thought, and tried to control his trembling. He closed his eyes and felt the tears build.


End file.
